


Bertie and the Bohemians

by Allemande



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: And fairly sketchy historical accuracy, Competent Bertram Wooster, Friendship, M/M, Own style with some Wodehouse thrown in, POV Third Person, mutual respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allemande/pseuds/Allemande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's another escape from Aunt Agatha to New York, and yet this time things are different: Bertie gets a job at a magazine and starts thinking about social responsibility. Jeeves has a pretty clear idea of who has motivated Bertie to change this much, and finds he doesn't look forward to the day his employer proposes to her.<br/>When he and Bertie 'meet' through mutual friends and end up spending their evenings together, Jeeves gets the chance to observe the woman in question, while he and Bertie get to know each other as almost-equals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whee! First J/W fic. Have not attempted to write like good old Plum - hopefully some bits reminiscent of his style, though.  
> Also, my 1920s New York is possibly fictional in parts.

 

**Prologue: Thursday night**

As the lights came on, Jeeves was still in his seat, his hands steepled together, a frown on his face. He had to be hailed several times before he realized that he was blocking the exit of row K.  
  
“Gripping drama, eh?” chortled the last man in the line, squeezing himself past Jeeves (who had stood up to let people pass but still hadn't moved from his spot). “I’ll put in some deep thinking myself when I get home.”  
  
Jeeves had to fight the urge to glare at the man, his unflattering vest, and his wink-wink-you-know-what-I-mean comment. Not surprising, really, considering the end of the play: the heroine rushing into the hero’s arms in the bedroom and the lights going out, at which point several people in the audience had ooh-ed and ahh-ed in a mock-scandalized fashion.  
  
‘Deep thinking at home’ delivered in that salacious tone was, Jeeves thought as he slowly exited the theatre, an altogether unsurprising comment for a member of the working classes in America.  
  
However, Jeeves did have his own thinking to do, and it differed substantially from the other man’s.

 

* * *

 

  
  
**Chapter One: Friday morning**

  
“New York calling Bertie Wooster.”  
  
Bertie’s head snapped up. “Hallo, hallo!”  
  
Addie was swinging her legs from the desk next to his, managing the impossible feat of grinning and looking at him in a stern, chief-editorial kind of way. “I do hope you’re thinking about what to put in that article of yours and not just daydreaming.”  
  
“Daydreaming? Pish! Applying the grey cells to the matter of the article. Absolutely.”  
  
“Didn’t look like that to me.” She crossed her arms. “What’s eating you, Bertie?”  
  
Whyever an essentially nice question should sound so accusatory, he had no idea. Women, what? “Nothing. Everything absolutely top-hole. I mean, Jake. Everything is Jake.”  
  
Addie laughed. “I appreciate your interest in American slang, Bertie, but don’t let anything of that creep into the written word, all right? I _am_ paying you to be incredibly English.”  
  
“Right-o,” he grinned, flexing his fingers and poising them over the typewriter. “Incredibly polite destruction of latest so-called Broadway hit coming up.”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
“Oh, you know. Main actor bit of a flat tire and script terribly unoriginal. I was hoping for a bit more from the director of _Worth Every Penny_.”

* * *

  
How Bertie Wooster had come to work in the culture section of Adelaide Carter’s hot new magazine, _The Lens_ , was a question Jeeves had initially not spent a lot of time pondering.  
  
He had been surprised, of course, especially when it became clear that it wasn’t just another short-lived idea of his employer’s; the latter had never before held a job and had never expressed an inclination to do so. However, when two weeks after their arrival in New York –another escape from Mrs Gregson and an unsuitable female – Mr Wooster had met Miss Carter along with a large group of her friends and had subsequently started up an easy friendship with the group and started contributing to _The Lens_ , Jeeves had simply assumed that it was another case of his employer being taken in by new friends and running along with their schemes. Mr Wooster was, after all, rather mouldable.  
  
He had been following the articles with interest, of course, even more so since Mr Wooster rarely sought his help on them. Jeeves supposed that as his employer mostly wrote at the magazine’s offices, he asked his fellow journalists whenever he was looking for a word or a turn of phrase (which was Jeeves’s role whenever Mr Wooster wrote one of his stories at home).  
  
Today was an office day for his employer, who had seen the latest Frederick Turner the previous night and departed early in the morning to write up his review. Jeeves, more time on his hands than he was used to, sat in the kitchen, idly turning the pages of last week’s _Lens_.  
  
_‘Writers, don’t cross the line: However side-splittingly funny it seems the moment you pen it, and however disturbingly contorted your American drawl may be, “I was just so bored-ah” does not a perfect rhyme with “We got married in Florida” make.’_  
  
Jeeves chuckled as he reread last week’s review penned by Mr Wooster. He had always had a way with words. Miss Carter had been quite right to employ him; he lent a unique quality to the magazine’s culture section.  
  
Was she quite aware, Jeeves wondered as he thoughtfully lit a cigarette, that Mr Wooster intended to lend a unique quality to her private life as well?

* * *

  
_‘... But a God-fearing cove looking for a job in a gambling house? Sorry – I don’t Adam and Eve it.’_  
  
Bertie leaned back, rereading his first completed paragraph with his brow furrowed. Not bad. Rhyming slang wasn’t a huge favourite with him, of course (you couldn’t understand the blighters half the time), but Addie did love when he sounded particularly English, so that was a concession he was prepared to make.  
  
He was terribly slow today, though. His thoughts kept straying to the previous evening, and not the part of the evening he should be thinking of (ie. the new Turner), but the few hours before he’d gone off to see the play.  
  
He’d met up with Addie and her crowd for a pre-show snifter, in one of those underground New York speakeasies that they seemed to inhabit.  
  
He’d spent a very pleasant hour listening to the group talking about current subjects and gossiping about people in and around government and in theatrical circles.  
  
His mind did tend to wander a bit whenever one of the brainier types started expounding on a theory; but someone else usually cut the cove off by shoving a new drink under his nose or, to Bertie’s delight, by summarizing the discussion in terms he could understand. (It was mostly equal rights for a lot of different people, which Bertie could see nothing wrong with.)  
  
He had just been regaling them all with an anecdote about a suffragette rally his cousin Angela had inadvertently stumbled into back in ’17 when Paul said, “Oh look – there’s Frankie!”  
  
They all turned towards a large group of people by the door, but Bertie couldn’t make out the man they meant.  
  
“I see he’s brought a new _friend_ ,” said Johnny, in a strangely significant sort of tone that seemed to make Paul and Harriet giggle.  
  
Their friend was called over and finally stood before them, accompanied by –  
  
“Everyone, this is Reginald,” said the blonde bird called Frankie breathlessly. “He’s from _England_.”

* * *

  
If Frank had mentioned that he was friends with Adelaide Carter, Jeeves thought in retrospect, he might have severed contact with him. Then again, he would have missed that half-hour of supreme embarrassment and awkwardness for his employer, which – he was loathe to admit to himself – he had quite enjoyed.  
  
As he greeted them all, a shade less respectfully than he would greet persons above his station, he took care to let his eyes linger on Mr Wooster, who looked quite flushed.  
  
Before the latter could say anything, a short, red-haired woman giggled, “All well and good, Frankie, but we’ve already got our own Englishman! This is Bertie.”  
  
“Oh! Not the Bertie Wooster who writes those very English Broadway reviews?” asked Frank, shaking his hand and eyeing him appreciatively.  
  
“The very same,” said the tall, short-haired girl Jeeves knew to be Adelaide Carter. “And don’t be so rotten, Harriet. There’s space enough for another Tommy on board, isn’t there, Bertie?”  
  
“Oh, rather,” said Bertie Wooster and shook hands with Jeeves.  
  
When Mr Wooster finally dared to meet his eye, Jeeves made sure to carry across the amusement he felt at the situation in his gaze, and he saw his employer relax somewhat.  
  
“Bertie’s our resident blue blood, aren’t you, Bertie?” said Johnny, and added in a stage whisper, “But we don’t hold it against him.”  
  
“That is exceedingly generous of you,” said Jeeves. His words, or possibly his elocution, sent the group into a fit of laughter, and Mr Wooster appeared to do his best to laugh along with everyone else.  
  
Jeeves’s employer remained another half hour before he had to go on to the play he was reviewing that evening. It was, from Jeeves’s perspective, a memorable half hour indeed.  
  
As if agreed on by telepathy, they both decided not to let on that they knew each other, and both listened curiously as they were introduced to each other by a member of the group. Mr Wooster was described by Paul as ‘an English aristocrat who’s learning to be a little more humble and whose command of the English language is poor at best’, while Frank reverently spoke of Jeeves as a ‘philosopher on a research trip’ (not quite what Jeeves had told him, but he was unsure of how to correct this misapprehension now).  
  
Jeeves saw Mr Wooster’s eyes darting back and forth between him and Frank a number of times, and even though this made him slightly apprehensive, he did think that those new friends of his must have done him good: he would have been completely oblivious to this two weeks ago.

* * *

  
If the previous evening had been awkward, it had been nothing to this morning, thought Bertie. He’d had a half-hearted attempt at bringing the subject up with Jeeves, but his disjointed ramblings about chance meetings earned him nothing but an increased indeed-sirring.  
  
He hadn’t dared ask – even casually – how Jeeves had met that Frankie bird.  
  
Questions of that nature will out, however, which was why he’d asked Addie at the office instead.  
  
Not how those two had met, of course. That would have been absurd.  
  
Instead, he’d asked nonchalantly, “So this Frankie cove brings along new friends every now and then, what?”  
  
Addie had narrowed her eyes slightly over her morning coffee. “I hope you’re not going to go all reactionary on us, Bertie.”  
  
“I don –” he’d started to splutter, but she’d been called away to a meeting.  
  
Later at lunch, he brought the subject around again to the night before, being very careful not to specifically mention Frankie or his ‘friend’, and finally Addie broached the subject herself.  
  
“This Reginald guy looked a class above what Frankie usually brings along,” she confided. “Nice bird. Very smart. Knows a lot about the American government for a limey.”  
  
“Oh, ah,” Bertie managed.  
  
“Oh by the way,” she smiled, “you mentioned _Worth Every Penny_ earlier – I recommended that to him last night and I think he might have gone to see it.”  
  
Bertie, having taken too large a bite from his sandwich, had to be thumped on the back. “Oh?” he finally managed.  
  
“Yup, he was interested to hear how we lowly types even got into contact with an English aristocrat, and I told him about how we met at that play.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Everything spiffing, old fruit?” she asked in her best English accent, studying him curiously.  
  
“Oh! Rather,” he said in what he hoped was an airy tone. “Was just wondering whether that sort of play would appeal to him. A Tommy, that is. Very Yankee play, that. All that necking and what have you. We tend to be much too reserved for that.”  
  
“You’re babbling, Bertie,” Addie observed, then shrugged. “Anyway, any ‘friend’ of Frankie’s isn’t likely to be that reserved, you know.”  
  
Bertie had excused himself soon after.  
  
So that was where Friday morning left him: sitting in the office trying to pen his review of the latest Turner play and trying not to think about Jeeves, people Jeeves spent his time with, plays Jeeves went to and conclusions Jeeves might draw from plays he went to.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

That Friday night, or rather, in the early hours of Saturday morning after the latest issue of _The Lens_ had finally gone to press, Addie held an impromptu party at her house. Bertie was quite happy to get zozzled on bootlegged liquor with the rest of them and forget about a rather tiring day at the office (he often jumped in to proofread when nobody else had the time, now, as it turned out that his spelling was better than a lot of the other writers’).  
  
Addie, unlike the others, did have an income. (That explained, now that Bertie came to think of it, how she’d been able to launch her own magazine.) It came with a magnificent apartment right by the Hudson River, with a terrace that offered a splendid view of Manhattan.  
  
He stood looking out at the skyline, well through his fifth brandy and soda, when Frankie arrived with Jeeves.  
  
Jeeves gave Bertie and his drink an amused quirk of the eyebrow and went off to the sideboard to mix himself and Frankie some drinks as well, while Bertie stood making awkward conversation with his man’s date.  
  
Blimey. They would never believe this back home.  
  
They would, of course, never hear about it either.  
  
“So are you a writer back in England, then?” Frankie chanced to ask just as Jeeves came back with the drinks.  
  
“Ah,” Bertie said and took an embarrassed sip of his drink. “I dabble a little. But not really.”  
  
“I can never work out what’s English modesty and what isn’t,” the Frankie cove smiled. When he took a sip of his drink, his smile turned adoring again. “Reggie! This drink is sublime. Can you do everything?”  
  
Jeeves inclined his head. “I could not say.”  
  
When Bertie’s and Jeeves’s eyes met, they both had to suppress a smile at the familiar phrase.  
  
“So have you ever heard of Bertie here, Reggie?” asked Frankie. “Back in the old country, I mean. Is he actually a really famous writer and just too modest to admit it?”  
  
“He may be,” Jeeves said, amusement now plainly visible on his features. To Bertie, at least. “But I confess I mainly read books of a philosophical and historical nature.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Frankie breathed. “Bertie, Reggie here is only the brainiest bird I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Ah.” Bertie was starting to feel quite embarrassed for Jeeves’s sake and resolved then and there not to fawn so much over the man’s achievements in future.  
  
Later, in the middle of an anecdote told by Addie, he happened to glance towards the terrace and saw Jeeves standing there on his own, smoking a cigarette. Checking that everyone was engrossed in Addie’s tale, Bertie slipped out the door.  
  
“Nice night for it,” he said casually.  
  
“Quite.” Jeeves offered him a half-smile and a cigarette.  
  
“Thanks, old thing.”  
  
They puffed away in silence.  
  
“I say,” Bertie offered.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Fancy the odds, what?”  
  
“The contingency is indeed remote.”  
  
A sudden thought struck Bertie. “Here, you didn’t engineer this, did you, old fruit? There isn’t some evil plot or Aunt-Agathaesque soup that you’re here to get me out of?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“Oh, jolly good. Jeeves, don’t sir me here.”  
  
“My apologies.” Jeeves gave him a quick glance. “Am I right in assuming that you would prefer your friends did not know about our connection?”  
  
Bertie swallowed. “Well. To tell you the truth, yes. You’ve seen what they’re like.” He returned the glance and then, on impulse, asked, “Would you like me to leave?”  
  
Jeeves’s eyebrow seemed to be registering a tenth of surprise before he became (nearly) unreadable again. “Not at all. Why?”  
  
“Well, it’s dashed awkward, isn’t it. I’m not sure you can really, er... fully enjoy yourself with me here.” He frowned. He was getting too tanked. If he wasn’t careful, he would be a lot more direct soon.  
  
“If any of us leaves, it should be me,” said Jeeves.  
  
“What? No! I’m not going to let you go all feudal on me and –”  
  
“It has nothing to do with that,” said Jeeves, and Bertie almost heard the unspoken ‘sirs’ in his man’s speech. “It is more a matter of you being here first.”  
  
“Ah. First come, first whatsit. Well, I’m not bothered if you’re not.”  
  
“Very good.” (Sir.)  
  
“So, ah...” Bertie squinted into the darkness, trying to make up his mind whether it was a good idea to broach the subject or whether he just thought so because he was drunk.  
  
In the end, the drink won.  
  
“So Addie said you’d gone to see _Worth Every Penny_ ,” he said, injecting every bit of casualness he was capable of into his tone.  
  
“Indeed. Most instructive.”  
  
Bertie swallowed. Instructive. It wasn’t the most common adjective to use when describing a Broadway musical play, and he should know.  
  
“I met Addie and her crowd at that play, you know,” he said off-handedly.  
  
“Yes, so she told me.”  
  
Was it his imagination, or was Jeeves treading on egg-shells as much as he was?  
  
“And what did you think?” Bertie tried.  
  
Jeeves cleared his throat. “I could not, of course, describe it any better than you did in your column. But I found it a heart-warming tale about the changes a man can make in his life if he has the right kind of motivation.”  
  
Bertie blinked.  
  
He’d been a fool to even think for a moment that Jeeves wouldn’t make the connection. Jeeves was a marvel, after all. He stood alone, etc.  
  
Well, it was done now; Jeeves knew the whys and wheres of the sitch, and was probably laughing at him somewhere behind that mask, and it was all a little embarrassing to be sure; but Bertie would just have to weather it.  
  
“I –” he attempted.  
  
“Reggie!” Frankie squeezed through the glass door, which was being forced half-shut by the masses that seemed to suddenly have materialized in Addie’s parlour. “The party is in full swing. You absolutely must dance with me now, you beautiful creature.”

* * *

  
In the end, Jeeves did stay at the party a little longer than Mr Wooster, who excused himself at 4 in the morning, pleading a headache.  
  
Jeeves wondered idly what would happen if he went home with Frank, whose advances had turned very direct indeed. He would never seriously consider it, of course; but it would likely be feasible. He knew Mr Wooster would not be up before 12, at the earliest; also, his employer had shown a remarkably modern reaction to the concept of his valet dallying with another man.  
  
His American Bohemian friends had surely influenced him greatly in that direction, Jeeves thought. But it was clear to him that the other man had already been open-minded enough before. Only held back, perhaps, by that intellectually limited group of friends he associated with back in London.  
  
These new friends (above all, of course, Adelaide) did appear to have wrought a significant change in his employer.  
  
“Reggie!” Frank, again, seeking him out on the terrace. At least he could be in no way uncertain about the man’s level of interest.  
  
“All by yourself?” asked the American, slipping an arm through Jeeves’s so they were side by side, looking at the Manhattan skyline. “I guess you need some peace and quiet every now and then to think on philosophy and whatnot, eh?”  
  
“Something like that,” Jeeves smiled.  
  
They were quiet for a while. Then, Frankie, obviously having cast about for a subject of conversation, said, “You never told me how you liked that play you went to on Thursday. I would have come, mind you, if I’d been able to get out of that family dinner.”  
  
Many young men these days, Jeeves thought, appeared to be afflicted with overbearing family members.  
  
“It was very interesting. The music wasn’t quite to my liking, but the lyrics were, at least, not too frivolous.”  
  
Frankie giggled, no doubt at Jeeves’s conservatism. “ _Worth Every Penny_ , wasn’t it? Remind me again what it’s about.”  
  
“The main story revolves around a young man who is considered a wastrel by his family and friends, until he meets a young woman who tells him she will only marry him if he makes something of himself.”   
  
Had there been a similar conversation between Miss Carter and Mr Wooster? Jeeves wondered. Or had Mr Wooster merely assumed that that was what she would demand?  
  
“Ah.” Frankie sounded unimpressed. “One of those I’ll-be-a-better-guy-for-my-girl stories. Nice if you like girls, I guess.”  
  
“Quite.” Jeeves looked sideways at Frank in amusement. Frank availed himself of the opportunity to shoot him a glowing look.  
  
Later, Jeeves stood in a corner of the parlour, thoughtfully puffing on what he had decided would be the evening’s last cigarette and studying the party’s host (at present dancing with Paul and Frank simultaneously). Adelaide Carter was rather outrageous, of course, and not at all as demure and proper a partner as Mr Wooster’s family would wish for him; but perhaps she was, after all, a good choice.  
  
Of course, if Mr Wooster married, Jeeves would have to find new employ elsewhere, a thought he did not relish in the slightest. It was a comfortable and rather diverting position, and Mr Wooster was, if a little eccentric in his own way, an extremely agreeable employer.  
  
Feeling suddenly quite put out, Jeeves decided to head straight home.


	3. Chapter 3

“Jeeves,” Bertie said, after a week during which they had edged around each other very carefully.  
  
He was frowning down at the teapot. How long did this bally thing take to infuse again?  
  
“Sir?”  
  
This was the third time he was attempting to help Jeeves make breakfast. Jeeves had violently opposed the notion at first, offensive to the feudal spirit and all that tosh, but Bertie had been very insistent. Woosters were made of sterner stuff than that. Now, on the third go, it appeared that Jeeves was less shocked and more amused. Surely a positive development?  
  
Not that there was anything positive about the scrambled eggs, which had turned out more like charcoal. (Jeeves had commented in an unexpectedly light tone, “I suppose you will not be needing my services anymore quite soon, sir,” which had earned him a glare, and then a laugh.)  
  
“I’m going out with Addie and the crowd tonight. There’s a benefit thingummy for the Castell that she asked me to come to. Did you know the place was teetering on the brink?”  
  
Are you coming too? is what he’d meant to ask.  
  
“Yes, sir, I had heard that the Castell Theatre was in danger of closing after several scandals involving the sale of alcoholic beverages on the premises.” Jeeves gave a little cough, and Bertie hurried forward to remove the infuser.  
  
“Oh, sale of liquor, was it?” Of course - Jeeves knew everything. Although this time Bertie had a fairly clear idea of who could have informed him. “This one is a strictly no-drinks party. Once bitten, what?”  
  
“Indeed, sir.”  
  
“Paul – you know, a friend of Addie’s...” Bertie paused, unsure of how openly he was allowed to discuss their mutual acquaintances. “Well, he always brings jag juice along wherever he goes, but Addie told him it was right out this time around.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“I think there’s some real concern that the Castell will kick the bucket and they want to ensure that the bucket remains unkicked.”  
  
“It would appear so, sir.”  
  
“I... er... I say, old fruit, if you feel like swinging by later on, you’re welcome to, of course.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.”  
  
And that was that.

* * *

  
Jeeves found Mr Wooster on the second-floor balcony of the Castell, smoking cigars with Adelaide and – if Jeeves remembered their names correctly – Harriet and Paul.  
  
“Reggie!” called Paul, easily the most exuberant of the group if one counted out Frank, and Jeeves found himself wondering whether the man really had managed to stick to the evening’s no-drink policy.  
  
“Good evening,” he replied, respectfully declining the cigar that was offered him, while he shot a quick, amused look at his employer puffing away. Not his usual choice of smoke.  
  
“Hallo, hallo, old chap,” Mr Wooster greeted him, clearly trying for the brave front and also, clearly, trying not to inhale too deeply.  
  
“Managed to elude Frankie’s iron grip, then?” giggled Harriet. “Ow!”  
  
“Shut it, silly thing,” said Paul, having punched her in the arm for her efforts. “Reggie has no time for your frivolous insinuations.”  
  
“I don’t see how I’m suggesting anything frivolous,” Harriet said blithely. “Frankie’s just very fond of you, isn’t he, Reggie?”  
  
“It would appear so,” said Jeeves non-committally. Americans did have a rather different concept of privacy, didn’t they.  
  
“We were talking about England,” Bertram came to his rescue, and Jeeves gave him a little smile.  
  
“Yes, good old Blighty!” called Paul, over-emphasizing the second syllable, presumably to correctly pronounce the strong ‘t’ and instead managing to sound like he was having a spasm. “Tell us, Reginald, is Bertie right in describing the place as lagging about three decades behind New York fashion- and morality-wise?”  
  
Jeeves raised an incremental eyebrow in the direction of Mr Wooster, who was avoiding his eye.  
  
“I would not be quite so drastic,” he said. “And there is something to be said for a more orderly society... and more conservative fashion.”  
  
He directed a poignant gaze at a yellow-green handkerchief that Mr Wooster seemed to have acquired since leaving the house.  
  
Mr Wooster heaved a dramatic sigh, but he was smiling somewhat. “Yes, lots of birds like him back home, I’m afraid,” he said to the crowd at large. “Very afraid of upsetting the old order and whatnot.”  
  
“And the class system?” asked Addie, sounding quite serious. “Is it still as rigid as before?”  
  
“More so, if anything,” Jeeves said.  
  
“Tell us, then,” said Paul, “is Bertie here dreadfully upper-class or is that just what all English people are like?”  
  
The Americans laughed uproariously.  
  
“I say!” Mr Wooster protested feebly.  
  
“It’s all right, Bertie,” Addie said, saving Jeeves from having to reply. “You may be an upper-class twit, but you’re one who makes himself useful, and most importantly you have a heart of gold.”  
  
Mr Wooster, turning quite pink, chanced a quick glance at Jeeves.

Jeeves couldn't decide whether he was amused or annoyed.

“I say, old thing!” Bertram had suddenly adopted that rather endearing tone that suggested he’d just had the idea of a lifetime. “Harriet is in a bit of a soup with an artist who won’t take notice of her at parties.”  
  
“Oi!” Harriet kicked him in the shin.  
  
“Oh, sorry, Harriet, old sport! Cat still mewling away from inside the bag and all that rot? It’s just that, er, Reginald here told me last time that he was quite good at this sort of thing.”  
  
Reginald inclined his head modestly.  
  
“I merely mentioned that I had some experience in aiding acquaintances in their matrimonial plans.” Here, he shot an amused little look at Mr Wooster, but it was so quick he knew nobody would have seen it. “Or releasing them from the afore-mentioned.”  
  
“Ah, a skilled matchmaker and –unmaker!” said Addie. “Just the man we need.”  
  
“Tell him all your woes, Harriet,” said Paul, nudging her.  
  
And Harriet told all. Jeeves remained silent throughout her tale, and finally commented merely by giving a small cough.  
  
“See, even Reggie thinks it’s a lost cause,” sighed Harriet.  
  
“Not at all,” said Mr Wooster. “He’s got an idea, don’t you, old fruit?”  
  
Jeeves inclined his head again. “Am I correct in assuming that you are speaking of Mr Algernon Harris of Harris Galleries?”  
  
“What!” said Harriet, and all gazed at Jeeves in amazement. “How could you possibly know that?”  
  
“I have become rather well acquainted with the city’s artistic landscape,” Jeeves said. “Mr Harris is the only one I have heard of who runs a gallery and a speakeasy at the same time and who continually wears a checkered suit.”  
  
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” said Paul. “Reggie, you’re a marvel.”  
  
“Thank you.” He coughed again. “If I may be so bold as to make the suggestion, I am reliably informed that Mr Harris enjoys solitary moonlit walks in Highbridge Park. If you were to cross him there by accident several times, it would be a rather fitting occasion to strike up a conversation, say, about coinciding habits.”  
  
Harriet gaped at him. “Brilliant! Reggie, you’re a treasure! Are you coming on to Chumley’s later, by the way?”  
  
Reginald smiled. If he correctly interpreted the situation, Harriet (who had appeared wary of him at first) was subtly inviting him to join their group, independently of Frank.  
  
“I would be happy to,” he said. “That is, if Bertie doesn’t object to having another Englishman join you.”  
  
“Not at all, old chap,” Bertram stammered, and Reginald knew that they both felt a strange sort of thrill at his using his employer’s given name.

* * *

  
Bertie wasn’t even sure why he’d had the sudden impulse to show everyone how brilliant Jeeves was.  
  
It wasn’t as though he could then publicly congratulate himself on having managed to acquire (and, for some unfathomable reason, keep) such a brilliant manservant.  
  
The crux of the matter was probably much more simple: He hadn’t thought about it at all but had just wanted to help Harriet, and his well-researched method of helping people was ‘Ask Jeeves’.  
  
He was listening to Jeeves giving a lecture on the history of the afore-mentioned park when suddenly Frank burst onto the balcony and – well, there was no other verb for it – squealed: “Raid!”  
  
There was a sudden flurry of panic until they all remembered that they had brought no liquor and therefore had nothing to fear. (The cigars were dumped over the balcony just in case.)  
  
When they’d been unsuccessfully searched by the policemen, Addie asked them (in an authoritative tone Bertie was quite impressed by): “Have you arrested anyone?”  
  
The man who looked like the boss looked her up and down before answering, “Taking in the Joneses.”  
  
“On what grounds?” demanded Addie. “This is a benefit for their theatre. There has been no impropriety whatsoever.”  
  
“Sure,” said the man sarcastically, “unless you count the crate of whiskey we found behind the stage.”  
  
Several choice expletives were uttered by the group as the policeman smirked and turned on his heel.  
  
Bertie was still frowning after him when he noticed that Jeeves – Reginald – he was going to have to get used to that – had apparently left the premises, and so had Frankie.  
  
He wasn’t quite sure why that thought should bother him so very much.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days later, something happened that Bertie had been dreading for a while now. Well, nearly happened.  
  
He’d been out on an errand for _The Lens_ with Addie: speaking to a capricious millionaire who liked his column and trying to charm him into giving them some money (Addie couldn’t forever dig holes into her private income and Jeeves had advised Bertie against supplying too much of his own). It had gone fairly well, and they were on their way back to the office when they ran into Jeeves.  
  
Ran into him in front of Rosenheim’s: the place to go for suits according to Jeeves (and therefore the place to go for suits, full stop) where they had been enough times to be recognized by the store’s manager.  
  
“Ah, Mr Wooster!” called the man before Bertie had so much as opened his mouth. “Mr Jeeves was just telling me how much you liked the black Martin Greenfield.”  
  
“Oh, ah,” Bertie supplied, as eloquent and quick on his feet as ever.  
  
“Indeed,” Jeeves said, “we were speaking of that particular cut only the other day,” and Bertie watched in amazement as his man somehow managed to greet Adelaide cordially, make his polite adieus to Rosenheim and subtly steer them away from the place in under a minute before the shop’s owner could say anything more incriminating.  
  
“So you two found out you shop at the same store, huh?” Adelaide provided her own conclusion, but still looked back and forth between them in a funny sort of way.  
  
“Well, it is the number one place for suits,” Bertie said, feebly.  
  
“Quite,” Jeeves agreed, a twinkle in his eye that immediately relaxed Bertie somewhat. “It appears to be especially popular with visitors from England. Bertie is the third Englishman I happened upon in this store within the space of two weeks. – Ah, speaking of acquaintances, I hear that the Jones brothers have been released on bail.”  
  
Oh, well played, thought Bertie.  
  
“Thanks to young Mr Wooster here,” Addie smiled, hooking an arm in his.   
  
Huh. As fond as he was of the girl, Bertie rather wished she wouldn’t do that just now.  
  
“Er,” he said. “Some would perhaps call it an unwise move bailing them out.”  
  
Reginald gave a small shrug. “Perhaps it was not the most prudent thing to have done, but it was certainly the kindest.”  
  
“‘Kind’ went to school with ‘stupid’, you know.”  
  
Addie laughed as Reginald smiled. “Rest assured I was not suggesting anything of the sort. It was very kind of you, and it will not merely benefit the owners of Castell Theatre, but also the extremely laudable work they do in the city. They do, after all, support a number of charities for the poor.”  
  
“Right-ho,” said Bertie, who was glad to hear that his hunch about the brothers had been right.  
  
“I did say you had a heart of gold,” smiled Addie, and for some reason, Bertie’s stomach did a funny sort of leap. It definitely wasn’t because of the way Addie was smiling up at him.  
  
It might be because of the way Reginald was decidedly not looking at him just now.  
  
And then, of course, because his day wasn’t going badly enough already, they ran into Frankie, who hooked his arm in Reginald’s and exclaimed loudly for the whole street to hear, “Reggie and I are going for a walk, see if we ever return!”  
  
“There’s one who won’t be returning to England so soon,” said Addie as they went up to the office, and Bertie nearly managed the impressive feat of falling _up_ the stairs.  
  
He purposely dragged out his time at the office until everyone else had left and he couldn’t very well sit there on his own. Moodily, he trundled down the stairs and ambled towards the nearest cab stand, when a gentle cough behind him made his heart leap upwards about six feet.  
  


* * *

  
There was a definite sort of whatsit in the air between them. Bertie dreaded what Reginald had to say to him. And yet, they had to have it out. He thought his heart wouldn’t stand another hour of this suspense.  
  
“Neutral territory, what?” Bertie said as Reginald led them to a cafe near their lodgings at the Savoy. He rather agreed: it wouldn’t do to have this conversation at home, where Reginald was Jeeves and nothing of substance was ever said between them.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
They sat down by the window and were both quiet for a moment, looking out at the people walking past the window – rushing past, actually, despite the late hour. It was quiet and cozy inside, though. Reginald had chosen well, as usual, thought Bertie.  
  
Whatever was he supposed to do without him?  
  
Reginald gave a little cough. It either meant ‘I’ve got something important to say’ or ‘Won’t you say something?’ – Bertie just wasn’t quite sure.  
  
He thought he might as well just surge ahead into the tunnel and see where they came out at the other end. (There was usually light involved in that metaphor, but Bertie couldn’t see it just yet.)  
  
“So, Jeeves,” he said.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Reginald,” he tried again.  
  
“Yes.” Reginald favoured him with that half-smile Bertie realized more and more he liked rather a lot.  
  
“These last five years with you have been...” Bertie faltered.  
  
“Eventful?”  
  
Bertie smiled. “What with aunts shoving beazels at me and friends asking for help at every other turn, rather. But it’s been good.” He cleared his throat. “Very good. Having you there with me.”  
  
“Thank you.” Reginald had an odd, sincere look on his face. “I have also enjoyed our time together exceedingly.”  
  
Bertie forced himself to breathe.   
  
He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the man _was_ saying goodbye.  
  
But there was nothing for it. He must soldier on, put on a brave face like a good English lad, what? (Also, he could not bear the thought of parting with this man on ill terms.)  
  
“But I suppose,” he continued, trying to keep his voice cheerful, “that there comes a moment when things have to change.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“However much we have enjoyed this time, I’m afraid we may have come to a crossroads. It’s been thoroughly spiffing, old fruit, I must say. But I suppose we do need to go our separate ways if –”  
  
“– you are to marry Adelaide,” said Reginald.  
  
“– you’re off with Frankie,” said Bertie at the same time.  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
The waiter came, picked up their empty cups and asked if they wanted any more. Receiving no reply, he retreated discreetly.  
  
“I – I mean to say –” Bertie stammered. “What?”  
  
Reginald opened his mouth, drew in a breath, and closed his mouth again.  
  
“You think I want to marry Addie?” asked Bertie incredulously.  
  
“You think I want to leave your employ to be with Frank?” asked Reginald in the very same tone.  
  
They stared at each other some more. Then, Bertie began to laugh, and Reginald nearly smiled.   
  
“I think we’ve got some things to sort through, old fruit,” said Bertie.  
  


* * *

  
They had ordered (and drunk half of) their second cups of coffee, and Reginald was still looking at his employer in surprise.  
  
Was it possible that he had misunderstood... all of it? (That was unlike him. What was wrong with him?)  
  
“I –” he began just as Bertram started to speak.  
  
“You go first, old chap,” said Bertram. His gaze seemed to be expressing a wary kind of hope.  
  
Reginald cleared his throat. “It appears we have been subject to a number of misunderstandings,” he said.  
  
“You can say that again.”  
  
Reginald furrowed his brow, wondering where to start. “I was indeed under the impression that you were preparing to propose to Miss Carter.”  
  
Bertram raised his eyebrows. “Miss Carter again, is she? Please don’t tell me you’re going to go back to indeed-sirring me next. I think we’re a little past that point, don’t you?”  
  
“Indeed, sir,” Reginald said, with just enough irony in his tone that his employer picked up on it and smiled.  
  
“But... hold on,” said Bertram. “That means you think... that play. You think I’ve been doing it all for Addie? The bailing out of bohemians and the acquiring of jobs and whatnot?”  
  
Reginald pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I did indeed assume that your present actions indicated that you had seen _Worth Every Penny_ and decided, like the play’s hero, to change into the kind of man who was worthy to marry Adelaide.”  
  
Bertram’s incredulous smile made Reginald’s heart stop just for a moment.  
  
“She’s a fine specimen of a beazel, is Addie Carter,” said Bertram at last. “And I do think her opinion matters. But she’s not my Penny.”  
  
An interesting way of phrasing that, Reginald could not help but thinking. _She_ was not his Penny...  
  
“But the play did bring about some kind of change for you,” he ventured.  
  
“Oh, yes.” Bertram frowned. “I, er... well. I suppose it’s all cards on the table now, what?” He cleared his throat. “Did you by any chance hear what Angela said to me before we left?”  
  
“Your cousin?” said Reginald, feeling very much like he had to try hard to keep up, now. (Again – when did this ever happen to him?)  
  
“Yes, my cousin. Angela. A good egg, all in all. A white sheep in a flock of black ones, it sometimes seems to me. Not very fond of Guillemette,” he shuddered, evidently recalling the woman Mrs Gregson had tried to match him up with that time, “but apparently even less fond of my continual evasion of the clutches of society.”  
  
Reginald frowned. “What did she say?”  
  
Bertram, nervously playing with his teaspoon and casting his eyes downwards, confessed in a low voice, “She said that if I didn’t turn into something useful and worth keeping around, even you would leave me at some point.”  
  
Reginald blinked.  
  
Bertram had felt that he needed to prove his worth... to _him_. Not to Adelaide, nor any other woman.  
  
“I see,” he managed.  
  
Bertram blinked at him shyly. “So, er... you’re not planning on strolling off into the sunset with that Frankie bird, then?”  
  
“Indeed I am not.”  
  
“That’s good news,” breathed his employer. And there, finally, just for a second, Reginald saw in his gaze what he had been looking for – hoping for – for longer than he had even been aware of.  
  
Bertram quickly looked away, his face all embarrassment.   
  
Why would he be embarrassed now? Reginald wondered. They’d laid all cards on the table, as Bertram had called it; surely there was nothing they needed to hide from each other now.  
  
Unless...  
  
Yes, of course. He had been so blind, so stupid.  
  
 _‘But love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit,’_ he thought, smiling, and called for the bill.


	5. Chapter 5

Bertie was still so shocked by the epiphany he’d just had that he hardly noticed Reginald leading them back to the hotel, into the lift and into their suite.  
  
Feeling agitated, but as of yet unable to get his thoughts into any sort of order, he stood by the window and stared down at the street. Right. Be calm. Be cool.  
  
Behind him, he heard the familiar sounds of Reginald making him a drink. How had he failed to notice how much the man was now part of his life?  
  
“Make yourself one while you’re at it,” he said without turning around. “Clearing up our amusing double act of a misunderstanding calls for a celebration, what?”  
  
“As you say,” said Reginald, coming up beside him and handing him his drink. Bertie accepted it with a nod, not quite daring to look at the man yet.  
  
“Ah, New York,” he said instead, looking down at the cars rushing past. “Such a strange city, what?”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“So different from London. Back home it’s just the medium canter of everyday life, isn’t it? I mean to say,” he added hastily, “it’s all absolutely spiffing and whatnot. Especially if you’re a horse. But a man does want a change every now and then, doesn’t he?”  
  
_“Pour un être conscient, exister consiste à changer, changer à se mûrir, se mûrir à se créer indéfiniment soi-même,”_ said Reginald.  
  
“Ah, yes, quite,” said Bertie. Although his own grasp of French was quite a bit better than his friends’, Jeeves surpassed him in that regard. “To exist is to change, and all that.”  
  
“Henri Bergson,” supplied Reginald.  
  
“Of course,” said Bertie.  
  
They were silent for a while.  
  
“I don’t really feel like leaving New York,” Bertie confessed. “I know we need to go back home at some point, but this place...” He faltered.  
  
“This place is full of opportunities,” said Reginald.  
  
It rather sounded to Bertie as though he said it in a deuced meaningful tone.  
  
He dared a peek at the man himself and found he was being stared at rather unguardedly.  
  
“Er,” he said, feeling the colour rising up in his cheeks. He looked down at his feet.  
  
Reginald’s feet stepped closer.  
  
Reginald’s hand reached towards his own and took the drink out of his hand, setting it down on the window-sill.  
  
And then, Reginald’s hand touched Bertie’s chin very lightly, and lifted up his face so that they looked into each other’s eyes.  
  
Bertie, who had thought that he would either have a lot to hide, or a lot to explain, suddenly found that it was very easy to breach the distance between them and kiss his man.

* * *

  
  
They were lying in bed, their limbs tangled up in each other, Bertie breathing softly against his chest, and Reginald was trying not to think about the shirt lying crumpled on the floor.  
  
Really, he admonished himself. There are moments in which it is entirely suitable to be worrying about tidiness. Lying in bed with your heart-stoppingly attractive and surprisingly experienced employer is not one of them.  
  
“You’re not falling asleep, are you, old thing?” asked Bertie, his voice somewhat muffled.  
  
“No,” said Reginald. He’d managed to bite back a term of endearment just in time. Soppy, immature fool, he thought. Really, if he was honest with himself, he had been heading for this for a long time.  
  
“Good. Because there are a few things I want to ask you. Also, I might want to do – _that_ – again.”  
  
“Both are negotiable,” said Reginald and smiled as Bertie’s body vibrated softly with laughter.  
  
“So, er...” Bertie propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Reginald with a fond, thoughtful expression his man had never seen on him before. Reginald folded his arms over his stomach, trying not to feel too self-conscious about lying naked with his employer and being examined in a thorough (yet entirely flattering) manner by the latter.  
  
“You know me,” said Bertie, and his expression changed as he appeared to become aware of something. “In fact, you know me better than anyone does. So you know I usually say whatever is on my mind.”  
  
“An entirely charming trait of yours,” Reginald said and smoothed away a lock of hair falling into Bertie’s eye. “It is not always to your benefit, as the world is not constructed in such a way; but it is charming.”  
  
Bertie smiled. “Well, I can always count on you to keep me in check.”  
  
“Quite.”  
  
“So. Is it too early to ask what is to become of us?”  
  
Reginald pursed his lips in thought. Bertie took the opportunity to kiss him.  
  
“Too early in the sense that we cannot know what the immediate future will bring – yes,” Reginald said as Bertie settled on his shoulder and Reginald stroked slowly through his hair. “Too early to ask each other what we wish for – no, I should not think so.”  
  
“What do you wish for, then, Reginald?”  
  
Reginald frowned, and his ruminations on all the implications their association would bring obviously went on for a little too long, because Bertram shifted against him uncomfortably.  
  
This was a time for simple, honest replies, not for discourses, Reginald thought.  
  
“I wish to be with you,” he said.  
  
Bertie shifted closer. “Me too, old thing,” he said very softly.  
  
“We must be aware of the fact that it will not be easy, however,” Reginald could not stop himself saying.  
  
“Oh, rather not,” said Bertie in a surprisingly wise tone. (Reginald rather suspected this man would continue to be full of surprises.) “We – or rather you – will have to think up a few good cover stories, and I shall have to contain my charming truthfulness.”  
  
Reginald smiled. “But only outside of the house, if you please.”  
  
“Right-o.”  
  
“May I also ask you a question?”  
  
“Of course you may.” Bertie propped himself up again and stared at him earnestly. “Reginald, you never need to ask. I would never wish for us to have that kind of relationship.”  
  
“Very well, my dear.” There it was, the term of endearment – ah, he was too far gone anyway. “I was merely employing a conventional turn of phrase, but I thank you for saying that.”  
  
Bertie nodded. “We are going to have to work out the hows, wheretos, and whatsits of this new relationship, of course. I don’t want you to be with me as my servant. But I cannot quite imagine you not being that anymore, in a general sense, either.”  
  
Reginald nodded his approval. “We shall figure out a modus operandi. Incidentally, this touches on the matter I wanted to ask you about. I’m assuming you did not act on your feelings before because you feared I would instinctively reject an employer’s advances, or because you did not esteem them proper?”  
  
Bertie frowned, and Reginald had to smile a little when he identified the look on the other man’s face as that sheepish I’m-about-to-expose-myself expression he sometimes wore.  
  
“Actually, I didn’t really think about it in that much detail,” Bertie confessed. “You see, I only realized how I felt about you about an hour ago.”  
  
Reginald stared at him for a second. Then, he burst out laughing.  
  
Bertram laughed with him, ordered him (as his employer) to ‘laugh like that more often’, and then – as Bertram had so charmingly put it – they did _that_ again.

* * *

  
  
The bell rang, and Bertie buried his head in his pillow. It was far too early for visits. Far too early in the morning _and_ far too early after their return from New York.  
  
It wasn’t fair. How was he supposed to act all normal when only a few hours ago he had collapsed with a satisfied moan on his valet’s chest?  
  
Reginald shimmered into his room. There was a particular sort of half-smile on his face, and Bertie sat up (somewhat).  
  
“Not an aunt, I gather.”  
  
“Not, indeed, an aunt. Another female, however, with a certain measure of influence on you.” Reginald was now dressing him. (Bertie _had_ started to do more things on his own but still took a lot longer to do them than his ever-so-efficient man.)  
  
“Not Madeline, surely,” Bertie said with some apprehension.  
  
“Not Madeline.” Reginald smiled, fixed his tie, cast a look over his shoulder and kissed him briefly and soundlessly on the lips.  
  
Bertie tottered warily into the sitting-room. And there, on his sofa, looking for all the world as though she belonged there, sat Adelaide Carter.  
  
“Your valet let me in,” she said pointedly.  
  
“Ah,” said Bertie.  
  
She stared at him sternly for a moment longer, then laughed and got up to kiss him on the cheek. “Bertie Wooster. You really are the upper-class twit you said you were.”  
  
“Afraid so,” said Bertie, hugging her and sitting her back down on the sofa. “Cup of tea, Addie, old thing? I’m sure we can ask my man to fix us some.”  
  
“I’m sure we can.” Addie pursed her lips. “We could even ask him to join us. Or is that a total breach of etiquette in these parts?”  
  
“It is, rather,” said Reginald, who was already exiting the kitchen with a tray containing a teapot, three teacups, three plates, scones and jam. “But exceptions can always be made for visitors from America, as we assume that they do not know any better.”  
  
“Glad to hear it,” Addie grinned. Bertie watched wordlessly as Reginald set the table. He wasn’t sure how the other man wanted to play it. And he was happy, in this very delicate matter, to leave all the thinking to him.  
  
“So, you two, then,” said Addie as they sat at the table.  
  
“What?” said Bertie.  
  
“Yes,” said Reginald in an extremely casual tone as he served the tea.  
  
Addie grinned. “See, I never thought Frankie was your type. Paul was sure of it. But Paul is an idiot when it comes to most things.”  
  
“I assume a nudge in the right direction was involved, then,” Reginald said, and Addie laughed.  
  
“More than one, I’m afraid. But I guess it paid off in the end.”  
  
Bertie was somewhat lost.  
  
“What?” he said again.  
  
Addie looked at his clueless face, laughed again, and waved her left hand at him. An engagement ring was sparkling on her finger.  
  
“Oh!” Bertie accidentally swallowed too much of his tea and coughed. “Congratulations and all that tosh, Addie, old fruit.”  
  
“Thanks, you sweet thing.” She gazed at her ring, smiling fondly. “Mind you, he can’t marry me yet. Not while his grandmother is alive. She thinks he works at a law firm and spends his evenings writing up new laws for the Senate. She would probably have a heart attack if she saw me.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with you, is there?” Bertie said politely. Addie only smiled and shrugged. In truth, they all knew that she was far too modern a girl to be approved of by an aged relation such as –  
  
“Reggie,” Bertie said, dropping his spoon. “I have an idea.”  
  
“If it is anything near what I have in mind,” said Reggie, “I think we might attempt it.”  
  
And so, after a few explanations, a lot of scheming and quite a few laughs, Addie was instated as Bertie’s long-term fiancée from America. She was a girl he rarely saw and who was actually rather unsuitable for a man of his background, but he was so very much in love with her that even his Aunt Agatha would fear breaking his heart. (In time, of course, Addie would accomplish the latter feat, and Bertie would be too devastated to go near any other woman, ever again.)  
  
“An excellent idea of yours,” said Reggie as they lay on the sofa later, having made dinner plans with Addie, said goodbye to her, and then been entirely improper all afternoon.  
  
“It will take your expertise to pull off,” said Bertie, stroking his hair. “So I’m not worried.”  
  
Reggie acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a kiss. “It will also require us to spend a considerable amount of time in New York, which I think will be very welcome from time to time.”  
  
Bertie nodded slowly. Reggie wasn’t saying as much, not out loud, but he knew they both thought it: It would all be deuced difficult. And yet, there was absolutely no way they would not be together.  
  
“Reggie,” he attempted.  
  
“Yes, dearest?” Reggie drew him onto his chest, where Bertie only _just_ resisted the temptation to purr like a cat.  
  
“One does not wish to run the danger of sounding like Madeline Bassett or any of the other potty-headed beazels out there, but... er.”  
  
“Yes,” Reggie said. “Me too, Bertie.”

 

THE END


End file.
